THE GREAT BLIZZARD OF 1980

        The big snow this week brought back memories of a much bigger snow 34 years ago when we were living in the church parsonage in Pollocksville, NC.  We remember that snow for a number of reasons, but primarily because we had four children including a two month old baby, and God sent his angel.    

        Weather forecasting is not an exact science today, but 34 years ago it was even more of a guessing game.  We heard we might have some snow, but no one predicted or could have guessed the magnitude of the storm that dumped almost two feet of snow on Jones County, North Carolina. 

        Earlier in the winter, someone brought me an old gas heater for my office at the church.  My office was always cold, but this old, gas heater –did I mention it was old—could get my office toasty in a few minutes.  I don’t know how old it was, but I would guess it went back to the 1930s or earlier. 

        The little town of Pollocksville didn’t have natural gas, but the church already had a propane tank to heat the baptistery water.  (See the story below)  We moved the propane tank (it took two people to move it) to outside my office window and ran a piece of copper tubing from the tank to the old gas heater.  I think I told you earlier it was old—very old.

        Meanwhile, out in the Atlantic Ocean, a classic Nor’easter was moving up the east coast while a frigid high pressure mass of Arctic air was blowing in from the north.  The weather forecasters finally realized what was taking place and told everyone to get home as quickly as possible because when this storm hit, it would be fast and furious and wouldn’t let up for quite a while.

        Jones County has always been rural and somewhat isolated from the rest of the world.  When we lived there, we had to go to New Bern (15 miles north) to buy groceries.  There was only one traffic light in the whole county.  Today there are two traffic lights.  We did not have cable television.  The most advanced technological device I had was a pager since I was on the local Fire Department and Rescue Squad, and a scanner that was tuned to local law enforcement and emergency channels.  The county only had one road grader which was operated by Junior Phillips who lived across the street from our house. 

        We bought groceries once a week and were well stocked so we didn’t need to make a mad dash to New Bern to the grocery store.  The church and the parsonage were located on adjoining lots.  I could walk out the back door and across the yard to enter the back door of the church.  I walked over to the church that afternoon to check and make sure all was secure.  When I looked in my office I saw the old gas heater and thought, “Well, if the power goes off I know where we can come to get warm.”

        Late in the afternoon it started snowing and the forecasters were right on target—it came in fast and furious.  The ground was quickly covered.  The snow was falling so fast I couldn’t see the church from the house.  The scanner was blowing up with reports of accidents.  Joyce was cooking supper and we were settling in for a long winter’s night when it happened.  The lights flickered and then went out. 

        We didn’t have any power.  Our house didn’t have gas logs or a fireplace.  Without electricity we had no heat.

        “Ray,” Joyce said anxiously.  “The baby! What will we do?”

        “I know where we can get warm,” I said.  “My office.  I can turn on the old gas heater.”

        About the time I said that, there was a flash of lightening.  We were in a thunder snow storm.  The wind was blowing so hard the blinding snow was coming in sideways.  You could not see more than 10 feet in front of you. 

        “”I can’t take the baby out in this,” Joyce said.  “Is there any way you can bring the heater over here?”

        I put on several layers of clothes, then put on my fire turn-out gear.  The boots were perfect for a big snow and the heavy coat would protect me from the furious wind.  I put my fire helmet on as if I was about to enter a burning house. Grabbing a flashlight,  Joyce wished me well and I was out the door. 

        By now the snow must have been 8 to 10 inches.  It was hard to walk in the heavy snow and the wind kept me guessing which direction I was walking.  And, I could not see the church. The flashlight was useless.  I was blinded by a blizzard—a complete white-out!

        Somehow I managed to make it to the church.  I went in under a covered awning that led into the basement.  Stomping the snow off of my boots, I used my flashlight to trudge up the steps to my office. 

        Even though I had gloves on, my hands were almost frozen and I had trouble disconnecting the copper tubing.  I finally freed the copper tube and guided it out the window.  Then I reached down to pick up the old gas heater.  It was not only old, but it weighed a ton.  Using both hands, I was able to pick it up.  Rather than risk walking down the basement stairs with the heavy heater, I used the main entrance to the church even though it would mean a longer walk in the wind and blizzard back to the house.

        I remember thinking that I needed to stop and rest, but the snow was stinging my face the same way it would in a sand storm.  I trudged on, out of breath, thinking I was going to drop it.  I kept thinking about the children and the baby, and praying that God would give me the strength.  I somehow made it to the house.

        I had to sit down and catch my breath.  I was covered in wet snow.  Joyce was already moving a mattress into the den so we could all sleep in the room with the heater.  Once I situated the heater I said, “Now comes the hard part—the propane tank,”

        I had already been thinking about how I would move the tank.  My thought was that I could roll it.  That would have worked on a normal day—but I had not taken into account almost a foot of snow. 

        As I made my way past the basement entrance to the church, I saw that awning that covered the entrance had collapsed under the weight of the snow.  And to think I had walked under that a few minutes before.

        I made my way to the window outside my office where the imposing propane tank was standing in the quickly accumulating snow.  I disconnected the copper tube and affixed it to my fire suit.  Then I gently pushed the tank on its side and started to roll it.   Only—it wouldn’t budge. 

        After several unsuccessful attempts, I stood the tank back up and grabbing it with a bear hug, I tried to drag it.  I did—it moved a few feet.  But it took every ounce of energy I had.  I tried again—a few more feet.  I not only was dragging the heavy tank that had recently been filled, but I was dragging it against the resistance of a foot of snow.  And the snow was still whipping down in a fierce blizzard. 

        I kept pulling at the tank, a few feet, a few more feet.  I would get out of breath.  Once I tried to pull it and lost my grip, tumbling backwards into the snow.  My heart was pounding.  I thought, “I could have a heart attack right here.  They wouldn’t find me until the spring thaw!”

        Joyce was also getting worried.  I had been gone too long.  I should have been back with the tank by now.  The house was getting colder.  There was no way she could leave the baby and the children.  She anxiously peered out the back window in the direction of the church, but all she could see was blinding snow. 

        I guessed I was half-way to the house.  I had come too far to turn back.  I could go to the house without the tank, but what good would that do.  Without any heat, we were all in trouble. 

        There was one thing I remember doing.  I was praying.  Praying that God would send me super-human strength.  Praying that God would send an angel to help me.  I kept thinking about the children, the newborn baby, my dear wife—they were all depending on me.  But I didn’t think I could make it.  I was totally exhausted.  It was harder and harder to budge the tank, even a few inches.  I tried rolling it again.  No luck and this time, I almost didn’t get it back up.  I sat down in the snow to catch my breath.  I remember thinking that I better not sit too long.  With the way the snow was pummeling down, I would be an igloo in no time. 

        “Please God, help me . . .”

        That was when I saw the light!

        Mike Coward was one of the “Good ole’ boys” in our church.  He had one of these big pickup trucks with 4 wheel drive and big, big tires.  He was riding around in the blizzard when “something told me to check on you.” 

        Going to the parsonage door, Joyce told him what was going on.   He headed in the direction of the church and soon found me and the tank.  Together, we lifted the tank—it took every ounce of energy I had left—and placed it outside the den window. 

        I was so frozen, I couldn’t even attach the copper tubing, but Mike did.  As I was trying to take off my fire suit, he hooked up the old gas stove and lighted it.  Just like that the room as getting warm and my angel was off to rescue another poor soul. 

        I finally thawed out.  We lit candles.  I turned on the scanner, that worked on batteries, and heard that no emergency vehicles were moving.  Everyone was trapped by the blizzard.  Later that night we heard Junior Phillips pull his big road grader in front of his house.  He went inside and went to sleep.  He later told us that trying to plow the road was useless, so he came home.

        All six of us slept in front of the old gas heater that night.  In fact, it got rather toasty in the room.  The children and the baby slept soundly.  Joyce and I stayed up, wondering when the storm would let up.

        The next morning we were blanketed by 18-20 inches of snow.  We took everything out of the refrigerator and put it on the front porch to keep it cold.  The power stayed off for a couple of days, but the old gas heater—did I tell you it was old—the old gas heater kept us warm. 

        I will always be grateful to my angel, Mike Coward, who rescued me that night.   And whenever we have a big snow, I think about the Blizzard of 1980.  And Ella Rae, our granddaughter has a favorite story:  “Tell me that story, Gdaddy.  The one about when daddy was a little baby in the big snow.”  And I do—I tell the old story, and like the old gas heater, it warms me every time. 


HERE IS AN OLD POST ON A SPECIAL BAPTISM THAT EXPLAINS ABOUT THE GAS HEATER WE USED TO HEAT THE BAPTISTERY




It was 30 years ago when he rode his bicycle into our back yard and stopped for a visit.  Johnny was a kind, gentle, and pleasant young man.  I’m guessing he was in his 20s.  People told us he was “a retarded boy,” a term we don’t use anymore.  Like many who are limited in different ways, Johnny made up for with an over-abundance of love and kindness.

        “How do you get that water in the pool?” he asked. At first I didn’t know what he was talking about.  “What pool?”

        “The one in the church,” he said. 

        I asked him if he wanted to go and see. We walked over to the church and I showed him the pipes that supplied water to the baptistery.  

        “Is it cold?”

        I explained to him how we heated the water with a makeshift gas stove that looked suspiciously like a still.  Satisfied, Johnny got on his bicycle and returned home.

His father approached me a few days later and told me that Johnny was talking about being baptized.  “We have never pushed baptism with him,” he said.  “There’s so much about it that he doesn’t understand.”

        Over the next few weeks Johnny would stop by and we would continue our discussion about baptism.  We went from the mechanics of the water, to what one would wear, to the meaning of baptism.  He nodded his head in agreement but I didn’t know how much he comprehended. 

        Finally, Johnny told me one day that he was ready to be baptized.  I explained to him that in our Baptist Church, one would come down to the front during the final hymn so I could share his decision with the church.  He agreed but when the time came, Johnny had disappeared.  I found him later that week and asked if he still wanted to be baptized.  I sensed he was fearful so I tried to reassure him.  As I was rigging up our homemade gas water heater, I wondered if we would have a baptism or not.  

        When it came time for the baptism Sunday morning Johnny was there, but he was scared to death.  I talked to him for a moment.  I really thought he was going to back out. I could hear a hush in the sanctuary.  I knew they were waiting on us. 

        We walked to the steps leading into the water.  I walked down into the water and looked up at him, holding my hand out, inviting him to come.  He hesitated.  It seemed like a long time as he stared at the water, trying to make up his mind. 

        “It’s okay,” I said.  “You will be fine.”

        Slowly, Johnny took a step and then another.  As he entered the pool he let out a yelp and loudly proclaimed, “Whoo boy, this water’s cold!”  It was more nerves than anything else.

        He stood in the water, shaking.  I said.  “Are you ready?”  He nodded his head.  I stated the baptismal formula, pronouncing that Johnny Parker was being baptized in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.   He held his breath and went under the cleansing waters of baptism.

        Just as quickly he emerged, shaking his head like a puppy coming out of a bath, and he looked at his hands as if they had been transformed.  He smiled a big smile and confidently walked out of the pool. 

        There was a transformation that day, but not just with Johnny.  Johnny was a child of God, always had been, before and after the baptism.  But as I stood there before a trembling young man in the cool waters, I recognized not his weakness, but mine.  I was not the one who lifted Johnny out of the water.  No, it wasn’t me, but a power much greater.    

        The congregation was also transformed.  Tears of joy punctuated a celebration of God’s goodness and grace.  We realized that in God’s family all are favored and all are blessed.  And I think that if I had listened closely I would have heard the words, “This is my beloved child, with whom I am well pleased.” 

                                                           

       

No One Loves A Loser, Except Jesus

Tomorrow is Super Bowl Sunday and when all the hype and extended pre-game coverage, the incredibly expensive commercials, the extravagant halftime show, the incessant commentary and analysis, and, oh yes, the game are finally over only one team will be the winner, only one team will raise the trophy, only one team will be the champion of all.  The only problem with winning is that you have to have losers.  Everyone loves a winner.  Everyone would just as soon forget a loser. 

      By Monday morning either Payton Manning or Russell Wilson will be lauded as one of the greatest quarterbacks ever, be on the front page of every paper, appear on all the morning talk shows, and make plans to go to Disney World.  The other one will . . ., well, I’m not sure what the loser will do.  No one loves a loser, except Jesus. 

      The words of Jesus often fly in the face of all that we hold to be important. We live in a success driven world.  Students are encouraged, and often pressured to be the top student in their class.  We compete for the best jobs that pay the most money.  We go above and beyond what is expected in order to be successful.  We honor our success by building bigger homes, buying expensive cars, wearing the best clothes, eating in gourmet restaurants, and becoming members of exclusive clubs and organizations.  We want to be a winner, to raise the trophy of success, to be the champion of all.  We have worked hard, sacrificed to get to the top, and established ourselves as outstanding and exceptional individuals.  We are encouraged to enjoy the fruits of our success.  After all, we earned it—we deserve it.  We did it on our own—didn’t we?

      Jesus applauds success as well.  We have all been created with many gifts and great potential.  We honor God when we realize our God-given potential and use our gifts to accomplish great things.  But we didn’t do it on our own—not by a long shot. 

      While Jesus applauds success he isn’t ready for us to raise the trophy and claim victory—not yet.  He reminds us that to whom much is given, much is required.  And he expects us to focus on those who have not made it to the top, the people he focuses on, the people that many would call “losers.”  Rather than lifting up the trophy of success, Jesus wants us to lift up the losers.

      My friend, Gary Gunderson, calls them God’s favorite people.  They are the poor, the powerless, the marginalized, the underdogs, and the ones who are left behind.  Jesus is always lifting these people up, caring for them in a special way, focusing on their needs, urging us to live with less so they can have more.  Jesus loves the losers. 

      While most of you who read this column are not poor and homeless—therefore not a loser—the truth is we all are losers.  We go to great lengths to convince ourselves and others that we are not, but we are.  No matter how hard we try, we are still plagued by insecurities, we still find it hard to love ourselves and others, we still struggle with the dark places in our souls, and we are still destined at the end of all of our striving to return to the dust of the ground.  We are all losers and that is not something to be ashamed of, it is one of the defining elements of our existence. We can’t do it on our own.  And until we recognize it and confess it we will have a hard time receiving the mercy, forgiveness and grace that Jesus offers. 

      When I understand that I’m not a winner, only a loser who has been blessed by God, I can reach out and share my success with those other losers who haven’t been as fortunate.  And if I am faithful and live my life serving and blessing others, I may be fortunate enough to one day hear the words: “Well done, good and faithful servant.”   That is when I can finally raise the trophy because Jesus loves the losers.

 

                                         

                                         

     

 

 

     

 

Threads of Feeling

        On a dreary winter’s day in 1767, a sad and desperate mother by the name of Sarah Bender painfully made her way to an impressive building in the London suburb of Bloomsbury.  She was holding her baby boy Charles.  Sarah had come to the agonizing conclusion that Charles would be better off in the Foundling Hospital than at home with her. 

        She understood what would happen.  She would hand over her baby anonymously. Neither her name nor the baby’s name would be recorded.  In a single moment, his past would be erased, his history would be wiped out, a new name, and a new identity would begin.

        But one fact could not be erased; one reality could never be altered.  Sarah Bender would always be the baby’s mother.  He would always be her child.  You cannot erase DNA—you cannot substitute who you were created to be.  And there would be a connection—one small link, one mark of identification that would be preserved.

        A few weeks ago Joyce and I had the privilege of visiting Williamsburg to plan for our 17^th Annual Bible Study Field Trip this May.  While Joyce was attending a workshop, I was enjoying the museums of Williamsburg.  I love museums.  I could spend days at the different Smithsonian Museums in Washington.  The Williamsburg museum is exceptional.  They have an amazing collection of early American paintings, furniture, and artifacts.  But as I browsed through the museum that morning, I was not prepared for a traveling exhibit that was on display.  With the exception of the Holocaust museums in Jerusalem and Washington, no museum exhibit has affected me emotionally as much as this exhibit titled “Threads of Feeling.” 

        As soon as Joyce got out of the workshop I said, “There is something that you must see.”

        The Foundling Hospital of London existed from 1741 to 1760 and received over 16,000 babies.  While one might think most of these babies were illegitimate or given up for reasons of convenience, that was simply not true.  The great majority of these babies came from mothers who loved their child, but due to poverty, unemployment, disease, death, or other reasons simply could not provide for them.  To give up their child was agonizing for most of these mothers, but it was also a sacrificial act of love.  Because the mothers recognized that in many cases the only chance their baby had for a better life, the only chance their baby had for survival, was to give them up and leave them at the Foundling Hospital. 

        But the decision was not irrevocable. 

        While the nameless mothers gave away their babies, who would be given a new name, the mothers, and only the mothers, always had the option of returning to reclaim their child.  And since the process was anonymous, there had to be a way, a system, a plan for identification.  And so the hospital requested that when the mothers left the babies, that they pin some kind of identifying token to the child, some type of matching material evidence that in the event their circumstances improved they could be reunited.

        Many of the mothers ignored the request.  They left their babies and walked away, never to return.  But over 5,000 mothers, mothers who loved their babies, who were in anguish as they walked away from the hospital, left a material token of identification in the hope that one day they could see their child again and claim him or her as her own. 

        The majority of these identifying tokens were pieces of fabric, all different types of fabric; calico, flannel, gingham and satin, many in the form of ribbons.  The hospital promised that “great care would be taken for the preservation” of the tokens and the hospital was true to its word, for these tokens now comprise the “Threads of Feeling” exhibit that are on display at the Museum in Williamsburg.

        As Joyce and I walked through the exhibit, and those of you going to Williamsburg will also see this, I was filled with emotion.  For every token, every fabric represented a desperate mother who loved her child and lived with the hope that one day they would be reunited.

        Although they were forbidden to give a name, many found ways of smuggling that information past the admitting clerk.  Some wrote the name in a hidden place on the fabric, others stitched initials, some so shaky they are impossible to decipher.  Others stuck to the rules, but came up with elaborate patterns to ensure that no one could ever mistake their child with another.  One cut her child’s shirt in half; another deposited one sleeve with the baby and kept the other.  Other mothers employed a language of color and symbol to express their complicated feelings.  There are buds, flowers, acorns, birds and butterflies.  Buds and acorns and flowers hinted at a beautiful life still to come, birds and butterflies implied that they were giving up their child to set them free from its present grim circumstances.  And then there were the hearts—hearts in every form, every fabric, every shape—hearts of love, hearts of longing, hearts of hope. 

        The few mothers who did return to reclaim their children, brought the other half of the fabric with them so that it could be matched with the fabric that the hospital had on file.  And if the pieces matched, then there was no doubt as to the identity of this child, and mother and child were reunited. 

        The Threads of Hope is a poignant and powerful display of the love of a mother for her child, and a sad and tragic reminder of the circumstances of life that often force the separation of a mother from her child.  But more than anything else, the Threads of Feeling contain symbols of hope, that one day, my circumstances will be better, one day my child will blossom and live, one day life will be full of joy and gladness and we will be together again.

        When God created the heavens and the earth, he took a tremendous risk.  Rather than create a programmed and carefully scripted world that would operate like seamless computer program, rather than create the perfect world that would be perfect only because there was no other option, God took the greatest risk of all infinity, and he created humanity “in his own image.” 

        This Scripture that Connie read for us this morning is described by theologian Helmut Thielicke as the “Great Risk of Creation.”   For to be created in the Image of God, means that in many ways we are like God, most especially in our ability to think and reason and make decisions on our own. 

        We have creative potential even as God has.  We have the potential to grow and develop, to live and love, to offer redemption and reconciliation, to enrich community and bless the lives of others through our gifts and service.  We also have the potential to withdraw, to retreat, to build selfish walls around our existence, to oppress, to mistreat, and to inflict harm on others. 

        When our loving God carried us, like a mother carrying her infant in her arms, and when he left us at the door of creation, not knowing what the outcome would be, it was an agonizing and heart-wrenching decision.  But just as these mothers knew that this was on the only chance their child had at a better and fulfilling life, God knew this was the only chance humanity had to truly discover love and joy, and know life only as it was created to be. 

        After God left us at the door of creation, things started to decline.   We became more interested in what we wanted than what God wanted for us.  We selfishly ignored the boundaries that God had established, foolishly believing that that we could create our own paradise that we could find joy and happiness in ways that God never intended.

        And so we strayed away from God.  We forgot who we were created to be and most tragically, we no longer remembered our names, that we are children of God.  We established a new life and a new identity apart from God, and when it came crashing down we blamed others, subjected and oppressed those who were weaker to try to establish our own kingdoms that are self-serving.

        But imbedded deep within us, is a token of identification that was left by our loving God—a mark, a complex and hidden pattern of identity---the image of God.

        No matter what we have done, no matter how far away we have strayed, no matter how self-serving and hurtful our lives have been, we all contain the image of God.  We belong to God, we are his, and we never discover joy and love and fulfillment in life, until we are reunited with him. 

        In the first chapter of Romans Paul speaks of God’s invisible nature, the pattern of his eternal power and deity that is clearly perceived in creation—God’s threads of feeling.  It is only when we discover this token of identification imbedded deep within us that we can discover who we are and who we were created to be.  “True Freedom,” said Saint Augustine, “Is not found in moving away from that image but only in living it out.”

        Almost a decade after Sarah Bender left her baby boy in the arms of a nurse at the Foundling Hospital and walked away, there was a loud knock on the door.   The clerk opened the door to find a mother standing there holding an extraordinary piece of elaborate patchwork, made up of bits of printed fabric.  There was a heart embroidered with red thread.  They took the patchwork and matched to the other identical half that had been carefully filed ten years before.  Then they went and found a boy, a handsome young boy who was named Benjamin, but while he never knew it, his birth name was Charles and they walked with him to the front door where his mother, Sarah opened her arms and welcomed her son back home. 

        Generations and generations after God left us at the front door of creation, there was a loud clasp of thunder and the earth shook as a man took his last dying breath in a terrifying crucifixion outside the walls of Jerusalem.  And three days later the earth shook again, and the stone at the door of the tomb rolled away as what had been the darkest and most desperate of situations was transformed into light and life.  And emerging from the tomb, the risen Lord stood holding an elaborate and elegant patchwork of love, the threads of feeling proclaimed by the prophets, preserved by the scribes, and hoped for by all humanity.  It was the perfect match to the DNA within all of us known as the Image of God---for we belong to God, we may have strayed away, we may have tarnished that image, we may have rebelled against our creative nature, but now we know, there is no doubt, of who we are, and who we belong to, and what we are created to be—We are children of God, we are created in His Image to love, and serve, all of his family. 

       

       

       

       

Epiphany Lights--What Happened?

        The good news was that it did not rain on Monday night, January 6, the day of Epiphany, when we celebrated our Epiphany Lights!  The bad news was that the wind was blowing and it was the coldest night in a quarter of a century.  A few hearty souls, around 10 children in all, braved the icy elements and came to see the lights. 

        The temperature had plummeted all afternoon.  When the first children arrived shortly after 5:00 pm it was already in the 20s.  I had planned to build a big fire in my fire-pit and let the children roast marshmallows to go along with their hot chocolate and cookies, but the wind rendered a fire impossible. I set up a table next to the garage to shield it from the wind.  We did have hot chocolate.  We had enough cookies for 50 children! 

        To make matters worse, around 6:00 p.m. half of my lights went out.  I don’t know if it was the wind, or if the ground was still wet from the rain, but for the first time a circuit blew and the lights went out. 

        By the time I turned off the remaining lights shortly before 7:00 p.m., the temperature was below 20 and still dropping.  It bottomed out at 5 degrees early on Tuesday morning. 

        The next morning I took the rest of cookies to the Children’s Center so all the children could enjoy them.  And I read a book to my granddaughter’s class.  As the children laughed and smiled and eagerly shared their wonder and excitement during the reading, I realized that the Epiphany lights never go out.  They are burning brightly in the hearts of our children. And every light stands for Jesus!

Having An Epiphany About Lights!

        I confess, I love Christmas lights.  And even though my daughter has called me Clark Griswold, I will not confess to going overboard with my annual Christmas light display.  Why?  Because as I tell the children at church, “Every light stands for Jesus.” The more Christmas lights the better because every light proclaims the coming of Jesus who is the true light conquering the darkness of our world.  Did I tell you that I love Christmas lights!

        I start preparing the lights right after Thanksgiving and it takes several days to hang the balls in the trees, stake the deer on the ground, and strategically place every Christmas tree, star, and snowflake.  Then comes the most challenging part, at least to me, running drop cords to all these lights without blowing every electrical circuit in the house!

        Why do I spend so much time putting up all these lights?  My motivation is seeing the awe and wonder on the faces of my grandchildren and all the other children who visit the lights each year. One year a little girl, with the muti-colored lights reflecting in her eyes, could only say, “Wow!  This is like a fairy tale.”  When I see the joy and excitement that the lights bring to the children, it makes it all worthwhile.

        We schedule a night when we invite all the church kids to come to our house and enjoy the lights.  We have Christmas cookies, hot chocolate, hot cider, and this year we decided to have a bonfire.  We fine tuned all the lights, replacing blown bulbs and fuses, placed the candles in the windows, the gifts under the tree, and we set the date for December 15—but sadly, it rained. 

        So we postponed the lights until the Sunday night before Christmas.  As the weekend approached, however, rain was again in the Sunday forecast so we moved it to Monday night—but alas, it rained both days.  So I told the kids we would have a post-Christmas light display on the Sunday night after Christmas, but, you guessed it—more rain. 

        It was at this point that I had, shall we say, an epiphany!  Why not have the lights the night of January 6, the day of Epiphany!  Most people are so tired after the Christmas rush that they forget about Epiphany, which is also called Old Christmas.  Eastern Orthodox Christians actually celebrate Christ’s birth on this day while those of us in the Western Church celebrate the coming of the Magi who followed a star to find the baby Jesus.  The observance of Epiphany takes place with a Festival of Lights, so what would be a better time to celebrate the lights that on this night!

        Everybody loves sweet little baby Jesus lying in the manger on a silent night surrounded by animals, shepherds, and angels.  But not everyone stays with Jesus long enough to experience a true epiphany.  This sweet little baby was the incarnate Word, the King of Kings, Lord of Lords, the very presence of God on this earth.  He was the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.  The Gospel writer John describes him as the true light who enlightens every person, and gives us the right to become the very children of God!  But not everyone sees the light, at least not right away.

        It is one thing to celebrate the birth of Jesus; it is another thing to commit oneself to follow him in life.  Singing Silent Night is the easy part.  Taking up your cross to follow him is the challenge.  Only when one has a true epiphany of the real meaning and power of the Gospel does one really see the light. 

        I realize that most folks have taken down all their Christmas decorations and unplugged their lights, but not me—not yet.  I’m going to have one more great night to celebrate the lights.  We will have hot chocolate and cookies and all the children from the church can hopefully come and join us.  The lights are still burning brightly, but they are no longer Christmas lights—they are Epiphany lights.  Every light stands for Jesus, the Light of the World.  Just pray that it doesn’t rain!

A Letter To Kate Elizabeth and Ella Grace Kirkendall

Here is the letter that I wrote to Ella Grace and Kate Elizabeth Kirkendall.  I read this at their Daddy's funeral on December 27.  I will give copies to Holly to give to the girls when they get older.  Several people have asked for a copy of the letter.  Here is the letter as I read it at the service.

December 27, 2013

Dear Kate Elizabeth and Ella Grace,

        One day you will read this letter and you will read about one of the most remarkable, courageous and influential men I have ever known; your Daddy.  You were only 3 when your Daddy died, he was only 40.  I know you probably have some memories of him and you have grown up seeing pictures and hearing many people talk about him.  Let me tell you how I knew your Dad.

        I first met your Daddy when he was only 16 years old and a sophomore in high school.  I had moved to Lexington as the new minister at First Baptist Church and Chad was in the same class as our oldest son.  He always had the greatest smile and seemed so happy.  I remember when he graduated from high school in 1992 and went to Chapel Hill to the University of North Carolina.

        When your Daddy went into business, he quickly became known as someone people could depend on.  He had such a great personality and was always positive and optimistic.  When you needed him, he would be right there.  We had an emergency one day when the kitchen sink overflowed and the next day the floor started to buckle.  I called your Daddy and in no time he was there, setting up fans under the house and in the kitchen.  He saved our kitchen floor, and when I asked him how much I owed him, he wouldn’t let me pay him.  “All I did was set up a few fans,” he said.  “And I wasn’t going to be using them anyway.”  Your Daddy was a man of integrity who was honest, dependable, and trustworthy.  Everyone loved your Dad. 

        He was a faithful Christian and his dedication and kindness led to him being elected as one of the youngest deacons in our church.  The way he lived his life was an example for everyone to follow.

        Everybody in town was excited when your Daddy and Mommy found each other and announced that they would be married.  We all believed that it was a match made in heaven, and I really think it was.  They were such a happy couple and we all wanted them to live happily ever after, but as you know, real life doesn’t always have happy endings.

        On a beautiful Saturday morning, April 28, 2007, your Grandfather died suddenly.  Your Daddy loved his Daddy and they were very close.  I had to call your Daddy and tell him the terrible news.  He was devastated, but knew he had to be strong and brave for your Grandmother.  He quickly came to comfort your Grandmother.  While your Daddy was heartbroken, he told me that he knew his Daddy was in heaven and one day he would see him again.

        I’ve never known your Daddy to be a public speaker, but he stood up at your Grandfather’s funeral and gave a moving and heartfelt tribute.  So did your Aunt Kristi.  Everyone was deeply moved.

        The sadness over your Grandfather’s sudden death was later tempered by the news that your Mommy and Daddy were having a baby.  Everyone was so excited over this good news!  I remember people saying that if anyone deserved a precious little baby, it was Chad and Holly.  Your Daddy worked so hard to get the nursery ready.  On July 29, 2009, your Mommy went to the hospital to give birth to your little brother, Matthew.  But something went terribly wrong and Matthew did not live.  Your parents were devastated.

        The funeral for little Matthew was one of the saddest gatherings I have ever seen.  Everyone’s heart was broken.  There were many, many tears.  Your Daddy had a very hard time dealing with Matthew’s death.  For the first time, I thought his smile might go away.  But it did not.  Because your Daddy had a remarkable faith that was deep and strong, he worked through his grief.  He knew that Matthew was in heaven, and that somehow, in ways we could not understand, God had a bigger plan and purpose.

        We were all praying that God would bless your parents with another baby.  Not only were our prayers answered, but God provided a double blessing when you girls were born on September 29, 2010.  Your Daddy was so proud and so happy.  His smile was brighter than ever before.  He had two precious baby girls and he loved you so very much.  On Mother’s Day, 2011, your Daddy and Mommy dedicated you to God.  Never has a Father been any prouder of his children as he and your Mom stood holding you with a great, big smile.

        Your Daddy had already been through so much sadness and tragedy that I couldn’t believe that there would ever be any more.  But there are so many things in life over which we have no control.  I saw him at the church one day late in 2012 and noticed he was limping.  “What happened to you?” I asked.  “I don’t know,” your Daddy responded.  “I don’t know what I have done.”

Your Daddy had not done anything.  Little did he, his doctors, or anyone else know that a deadly cancer had attacked his body.  It wasn’t until later that it was diagnosed and when it was, he started a long and courageous battle against the disease, finding the best doctors and treatment that were available, and all the time believing that God would work through the doctors to heal his body.  We all believed he would be healed.  We prayed and prayed.  Through social media thousands of people learned about your Daddy and prayed for him. We all wore blue ribbons and had prayer vigils when he had surgery at Duke Hospital in May.  His story inspired people he never even met and brought people in our town together in a marvelous way.  Your Daddy’s friends came together and provided remarkable support and love for him and your mom.  In all my years of ministry I don’t think I have ever seen such an amazing outpouring of love and support from an entire community.

  Your Daddy’s life, his courageous fight against cancer, and his unquenchable faith touched and inspired thousands of people.  Your Mommy was right there with him the whole time.  She was so strong and brave.  When I would tell your Daddy how many lives he was touching and people he was inspiring, he would smile and say he was thankful that God was using him.  But there were two lives that he was most concerned about, and that was you, his two girls.  This is what I want you to tell you about your Daddy:

Your Daddy’s faith in God, his courage in suffering, his powerful spirit will always be there for you as a witness and an example in times of trouble.  I hope and pray you will never have to go through the hard times that your parents went through, but we never know what life will bring.  But always remember that when trouble comes, when you find yourself in a painful situation, when there is suffering and heartache, you can work through it, you can overcome it, you can emerge victorious because your Daddy did.  He never gave up, he never lost hope, he never quit believing that God had a bigger plan and purpose for his suffering.  I know that God used your Daddy’s faith to inspire other people, and I also know that God will use his example to guide and inspire you throughout the rest of your life.  If ever you find yourself in a situation in which you are simply overwhelmed and feel like giving up, remember your Daddy and know that you can find that same strength, the same faith, and the same courage that he had.

Ella and Kate, the most important thing I want to know is this:  Your Daddy will always be with you.

How do I know this?  Because your Daddy loved you than you can ever imagine.  And love is eternal.  The Bible tells us that love never ends.  Death can destroy a lot of things, but it cannot take away love.  The power of love is greater than sickness, suffering, disease, pain, and death.  Your Daddy’s love will always be with you.

Whenever you accomplish something great in life, your Daddy will be with you, his smile and his love will surround you.  When you graduate from high school and college, your Daddy will be right there with you, smiling with pride over all you have achieved.  One great day, when you find the right person for your life and it is time to walk down the aisle of the church to exchange your wedding vows, your Daddy will be walking right beside with the biggest smile as he shares in your joy. 

And one day, many, many years from now hopefully, when death does come as it comes for all of us, do not be afraid, because your Daddy will be standing right there with Jesus to welcome you home.

A few weeks before he died, your Daddy told me that he was not afraid of death, but he didn’t want to leave his family.  And then he said, “I don’t want my girls to forget me.”

I assured your Daddy that it would never happen and that is one reason I wrote you this letter.  I wanted you to hear my story of one of the most courageous and faithful men I have ever known in all my years of ministry.  He loved God.  He was a faithful friend.  He loved his family.  He loved your Mommy. And he loved his baby girls.  I will never forget him.  I’m a better person because of him.  Your life will always be enriched, empowered, and inspired because he will always be with you. 

Sincerely with love,

 

Ray N. Howell III

 

       

My Friend Chad

        My friend Chad Kirkendall fought the good fight.  If ever anyone fought the good fight it was Chad.  He was strong, courageous and faithful against impossible odds.  His entire life was an inspiration, his optimistic spirit was contagious, and his unquenchable faith was a powerful witness to all. 

        I first met Chad when he was in high school.  He always had that winsome personality and that charming smile, even as a teenager.  I remember the excitement when Chad and Holly were engaged and we planned their wedding.  It was a unique time of joy and happiness for all of us.

        Then came that terrible Saturday when I had to call Chad and tell him the news over the phone that no one should ever have to hear that way.  His father had died suddenly of a massive heart attack.  Joyce and I had gone to the house to tell Becky.  Kristi and Dave were on the church retreat down at Caswell.  Chad didn’t deserve to hear the news that way, but at that moment I reasoned his mother needed him more.  We didn’t feel that we could leave Becky, so I called Chad to not only tell him of the tragedy of his father’s death, but that his mother needed her son.  In just a few minutes he was there. 

        I remember how, even then, he handled that devastating news with such dignity, courage, and grace. 

        Bobby was gone, but the sadness that Chad and all the family felt was soon tempered by the joyful news that Holly was expecting.  Chad would soon be a daddy and they were having a baby boy!

        We left to go to Belize that summer on the youth mission trip knowing that the baby would probably be born while we were gone.  I remember Chad’s joyous grin as he relished in the excitement and anticipation of his son’s birth.  I remember saying something to Chad like, “You’ll be a daddy by the time we get back.”

        He was.  But once again there was tragedy.

        Matthew was born but there were immediate complications.  Shortly after his birth he died.  Chad and Holly were devastated.  It should not have happened.  Especially not to this deserving couple.  They had recently experienced one tragedy, now another.  He had lost his father.  Now he lost his son.

        I arrived home in time for the funeral.  It was one of the saddest gatherings I could ever recall.  Little Matthew’s casket was so small, yet the grief was so large.  A very big crowd of mourners, everyone with broken hearts, stood by—everyone wanting to do more than was humanly possible.  Everyone was united in a common grief. 

        I remember going to see Chad and Holly shortly after the funeral.  As a minister, I deal with sadness and crisis on a daily basis, but rarely had I ever experienced anything as heartbreaking as this.  Chad and Holly were thrown into a deep, dark pit of grief.  The pain was agonizing. There was a void, a gap, never to be filled.

        Chad’s effervescent smile didn’t disappear completely, but it was mighty dim.  Slowly, gradually, and painfully, he started to recover.  Matthew would always be a part of Chad’s life, in a much larger way that any of us could imagine at the time, but we could see Chad and Holly emerging from the valley of darkness and slowly returning to the light. 

        There is always a light that shines in the darkness.  There is always hope on the horizon of despair.  One day we heard the exciting news that Holly was expecting again!

        Chad and Holly were blessed again with the gift of life, only this time it was a double blessing!  After the tragedy at Matthew’s birth, there were many, many prayers as Holly approached her delivery date.  God answered those prayers in a wonderful way when Ella Grace and Kate Elizabeth were born.  Everyone who knew Chad and Holly rejoiced.  Yes, God is good . . .

        And then . . .

        The first time I realized something was wrong with Chad was late last year when I saw him at the church.  He was limping and I asked him what was wrong.  He didn’t know.  I never thought it would be anything serious.

        I saw Chad again early in the year.  His limp was much more pronounced and Chad was very frustrated that the doctors could not figure out what was going on.  He was going the next week to have some more tests run.  Surely, there is an explanation.  Surely, this is something that can be resolved. 

        There was an explanation . . . .

        Most of you know the rest of the story.  The news kept going from bad to worse.  Chad never got a break.  Sunday morning Chad died at the Hinkle Hospice House.  Life isn’t fair and if anyone has experienced this truth, it has been Chad.

        Throughout this entire ordeal I have witnessed the most remarkable and courageous journey of faith.  Chad never gave up, never lost his faith, never lost hope.  Even in the end when it was apparent that physical healing would not take place, Chad believed that God had a bigger plan.  Chad is one of the strongest, most courageous men I have ever known.

        Chad’s journey has been an inspiration to thousands of people.  He has touched people in ways that we will never know.  Through social media, his story has been told across the nation.  God has used Chad in a powerful way.

        I don’t pretend to understand why good people like Chad suffer.  Several people asked me if my last article about hoping in the “not-yet” was about Chad.  It wasn’t directly, but I certainly had him in mind.  (The article is below this one)

        Last week I had a visit with Chad.  I said, “Chad, I don’t have any answers.  I don’t even know the right questions.  But something tells me that a thousand years from now it will not matter.  We will all be together and we will all understand.”

        Chad smiled—that amazing smile.

        On Sunday morning Chad smiled as never before when we walked into the arms of Jesus, and his daddy, and his son . . .

       

ADVENT: HOPING IN THE "NOT-YET"

        The emaciated body of my friend was difficult to see.  He sat in a recliner but was not comfortable.  There were gaping holes in his hair as the chemotherapy was taking its toll.  The radiation had left burn marks on his skin.  He was a relatively young man with a family.  He was athletic, strong and active; always healthy—until this—until this cancer had ravaged his body and was hammering away against his soul. 

        “There is one thing I don’t understand, preacher,” he said with a pained and weary expression on his face.  I waited a moment.  He was in deep thought.  The silence was pregnant with the somber fact we both knew he was in his last days. 

        “I’m on prayer lists all over this country.  People I don’t even know are praying for me.  I’ve always tried to be a good Christian.  I have lived my life doing the right thing.  So many people are praying for me—and I’m not getting any better.  I just don’t understand.” 

        As an old preacher who has been around for a long time, I don’t understand it either.  A few weeks after my friend shared this with me, he was dead.  Some people would say he didn’t have enough faith.  (That’s baloney!)   Others might say that it wasn’t God’s will for him to live.  (Really!)  Some well meaning people even said God needed him more than we did.  (What kind of God would do this?)  But people of the deepest faith acknowledged that our finite understanding will not allow us to comprehend this great mystery.  We simply do not know why. 

        Many of you will listen to the words of the prophet Isaiah in the morning as you worship on the Second Sunday of Advent.  You will hear how animals who are natural enemies will lie down together and a small child will play with them.  Last Sunday we heard about the day when swords would be beaten into plowshares and nations would not lift up swords against other nations, neither would they learn war any more. 

        The season of Advent poses a big dilemma for us that in many ways relates to my friend’s situation.  During Advent we hear these Old Testament prophecies of the coming one who will defeat the powers of evil, reign triumphantly over his people and establish peace and harmony in our troubled world.  He will be the “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, and Prince of Peace.” 

        Well, he came.  Christ was born.  The Son of God came and lived and preached about the Kingdom of God.  But 2,000 years later we continue to be plagued by wars and the forces of evil.  There is much suffering and pain.  People continue to die of cancer even though they are on prayer lists all over the country.  How do we reconcile this dilemma?

        The coming of Christ was the beginning of hope.  His advent propelled us into a world of promise which is understood in terms of expectation.  Yes, our world is full of pain and suffering and death, but it is also full of hope and promise and life because of Christ.  As people of hope we are constantly drawn toward the future as we walk on that narrow ridge between the disappearing “now” and the ever newly appearing “not-yet.”  Paul wrote that if we hope for what we do “not-yet” have, we wait for it patiently. 

        Every Sunday of Advent we light a candle to signify the light that shines in our darkness.  No matter how desperate the situation, no matter how dark the night, there is always light, there is always hope.  We look to the “not-yet” of fulfillment, healing, love, and peace. 

        I didn’t have an answer for my friend that day.  All I could tell him was that even though I don’t understand, I do know that this is not the end.  There is more, there is always more.  Cancer, sickness, suffering and death are never the final answers.  There is more that we will experience one day, but “not-yet.”  Simply knowing this makes life better.  Our hope of the ‘not-yet’ in the future transforms life today and gives us reason to keep on believing.  No, I didn’t have an answer for him that day—but he has the answer now!